


Perfect Fit

by starlightment



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Developing Friendships, First Meetings, Friendship, Galaxy Garrison, Gen, Hunk & Lance (Voltron) Friendship, Lance & Pidge | Katie Holt Friendship, Lance (Voltron)-centric, Pre-Canon, garrison trio!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 00:40:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19878745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightment/pseuds/starlightment
Summary: Great, Lance thinks again, tugging at those godforsaken sleeves. He’s too big for his uniform, and too big for this bedroom, with its rocket ship bedsheets, and mason jar full of seashells, and the sleek mahogany acoustic his dad just got him for his fourteenth birthday. It’s a young boy’s room — not acadet’s.And yet, here he stands, wide-eyed and garishly orange. The program starts in a month. Textbooks have been purchased, and dorm assignments have been given out, and Lance still feels like this is some big fluke. Like a glitch in the system. Like he doesn’t fit.But hehasto fit.- - -written for the Cosmic Dust Zine.





	Perfect Fit

**. . .**

Lance stares miserably into his bedroom mirror. Tilts his head to one side. Then the other. Blinks. Shuffles his feet, and wiggles his fingers. Blinks again.

His reflection, naturally, does the same.

 _It’s too small_ , he decides at once, and he’s right. The crisp, perfectly starched cuffs of his brand new Galaxy Garrison uniform barely reach the middle of his wrists. Lance supposes this is what he deserves for waiting up until the final deadline to place his size order. And for that unforeseen growth spurt over the summer, stretching him out at least an extra three inches.

 _Great_ , Lance thinks again, tugging at those godforsaken sleeves. He’s too big for his uniform, and too big for this bedroom, with its rocket ship bedsheets, and mason jar full of seashells, and the sleek mahogany acoustic his dad just got him for his fourteenth birthday. It’s a young boy’s room — not a _cadet’s_.

And yet, here he stands, wide-eyed and garishly orange. The program starts in a month. Textbooks have been purchased, and dorm assignments have been given out, and Lance still feels like this is some big fluke. Like a glitch in the system. Like he doesn’t fit.

But he _has_ to fit.

When his grip unfurls, the fabric of his sleeves spring back up his wrists. Useless. He twitches, and pouts, and squirms, and just keeps staring until he realizes some time has passed, and he hears Rachel banging on his door, yelling at him to come down for dinner.

His reflection, naturally, does the same.

* * *

On the very first day of classes, Lance gets lost on his way to Aviation 101, and wonders, darkly, if this is the Garrison’s sick, watered-down version of hazing. Weed out the weaklings who can’t even navigate these convoluted halls, let alone entire solar systems.

He curses at himself, vehemently, schedule sheet wrinkled in his sweaty clutches, all the way to the North Wing.

The lecture has already begun by the time Lance finally stumbles through the door, breathless and mortified beyond belief. He slips into the back row all by himself because it’s not like he has any friends he can cozy up to just yet. So far, the only person Lance has had the so-called pleasure of meeting is his roommate — a smug-looking kid named James, who actually had the audacity to _laugh_ when he caught Lance pinning posters of star constellations and the Cuban flag over his bed — and it’s not like Lance would’ve wanted to sit by _that_ guy, anyway.

“McClain,” his instructor — a gruff and notorious hard-ass by the name of Iverson — shouts from the front of the room.

Desks creak and chairs squeak as every single head swivels around to gawk in Lance’s direction. He slithers down in his seat, pretends not to notice how their eyes burn straight through his skin.

“Y-Yes, sir,” he whimpers. 

“McClain,” Iverson says again, narrowing his beady eyes. “As in Veronica. Correct?”

Lance swallows around something thick and bitter inside his throat, and manages to get out another feeble, “Yes, sir.”

“She was in my class for her first year, too. One of our brightest minds,” the man goes on. “Hardworking. Responsible. _Diligent_.”

“Yes, sir,” repeats Lance, just a pathetic shiver of sound.

“It’s a shame that not all good traits run in the family.”

From somewhere near the front row, someone snorts out loud, and Lance feels every muscle, every bone inside his body shrivel up into nothing. He bites down on his lip until he tastes blood, balls up his fists until his nails dig into skin, and holds his breath until he can’t feel the sting of emotion pricking the corners of his eyes anymore.

Then the class resumes, just like that, and Lance feels left behind, tugging roughly at his sleeves. 

* * *

_Stupid_ , Lance’s mind chants in a rabid frenzy as he bursts into the second-floor men’s restroom. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ —

With his big, clunky, perfectly-regulation boots squelching against the tiled floor, he all but throws himself into one of the empty stalls, slamming the door shut so that it rattles on its flimsy hinges. He sits down on the toilet lid, face buried into his trembling hands, and he thinks, resoundingly — _god_ , this is low. This is the _lowest_ of the low. Pathetic. Disgraceful. And so, so _stupid_.

Stupid for the knot in his throat, and the tears streaking hot trails down his cheeks. Stupid for the ache in his chest that throbs like the swollen tides of home. Stupid for thinking he could find his place here, amongst a school of brilliant minds and skilled prodigies, who look at Lance as if they can smell the inferiority on him like a billow of smoke. Stupid for hiding behind a uniform that isn’t made for him. Stupid for wanting to call his mother, and tell her he’s sorry because he needs to come home, and he needs to keep his dreams out of the stars, and he’s scared that he’ll never, _ever_ make her proud. 

A sob writhes its way past Lance’s lips, quivering and quiet, but he clamps down on it, hard, knowing that if he starts he might not be able to stop. So, sniffling, his fingers grapple at the toilet paper dispenser, pulling at nothing but a bare cardboard roll because — of course. _Naturally_. He’s seconds away from resorting to his sleeve as a tissue when he feels something soft and timid nudging at his ankle.

Lance resists the embarrassing urge to jump or gasp in surprise, and, instead, glances down to find — 

A hand.

All plump, brown skin with fingernails that look like they’ve maybe been nibbled on. It’s reaching out from the next stall over, offering a wad of crumpled up toilet paper.

Lance stares at it, dumbfounded.

“Not to be an eavesdropper here, but, uh… just in case you need some —”

“Um, thanks,” says Lance, snatching the handful of toilet paper, and — damn, could he sound more _wrecked_ right now? It has to be painfully obvious that he’s locked himself away in here to bawl his eyes out, like a _loser_. And this guy is just too polite to point it out. Part of Lance is grateful for it, but most of him is just downright humiliated.

The hand disappears, and Lance dabs silently at his eyes and nose before clearing his throat, and trying again: “Sorry, man. I didn’t think — I thought I was alone in here.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” the guy tells him a bit breezily. “I wasn’t even gonna say anything — just kinda let you, y’know, _do your thing_. But I would’ve felt pretty bad leaving you hanging, so.”

“Thanks,” Lance repeats.

“Sure, dude. Anytime.”

Silence. Lance counts his breaths until they start coming out even, and his neighbor must be able to hear it, all ragged and strangled, because suddenly he’s piping up again.

“So, uh — bad day?” he wonders tentatively.

Lance hiccups around some sad excuse for a scoff. “The _worst_. Iverson basically ripped me a new one in front of the whole class.”

“I accidentally hit my engineering partner in the head with a wrench, and then puked all over my instructor’s shoes.”

“Wow,” Lance croaks. “You win.”

They both chuckle weakly, and Lance feels something loosen slightly in his chest.

“Yeah, could’ve just been first day jitters,” the guy goes on, “or it could’ve been that mystery meat casserole from the cafeteria. Man, I would _kill_ for some of my mom’s home-cooking.”

“Aw, man, don’t even remind me,” groans Lance. “Now all I can think about are garlic knots.”

“Ooh, or _burritos_.”

“ _Mac and cheese_ —”

“—And pizza!” they end up exclaiming at the same time, which promptly spurs them into a bout of unbridled laughter. Lance’s cheeks rise and brighten beneath the tear stains.

“My name’s Hunk, by the way,” the guy says eventually.

“Lance,” he replies with a wet, happy sniffle. “Y’know, we should just order a pizza sometime. It definitely won’t beat the stuff from home, but it’s better than nothing, right?”

Hunk sighs longingly. “I’m down for _anything_ that’s not grey and swimming in lumpy gravy.”

And Lance can’t quite explain it, but he feels something settle — in the air, in his mind. And he feels, for the first time all day, like maybe things won’t be so awful, after all.

* * *

The next time Iverson screams in his face, Lance takes it like a champ. 

Well. Kind of.

“I hope I don’t need to remind you,” the man sneers, nostrils flared, jaw clenched, “that the only reason you’re here is that the best pilot in your class had a discipline issue and flunked out.”

Lance shivers down to the bone, hairline dappling with sweat, legs going numb beneath him, but he does not break — and, right now, he considers that a win. He remembers all the times he could’ve — and _did_ — and then allows himself a fleeting swell of pride at how far he’s come. He stands here now, slightly older, taller, newly steeled. Still clawing and searching for something to hold fast to. Something that _fits_. 

The next squadron of cadets file into the simulator, and Lance, Hunk, and Pidge are shuffled to the back of the line again. Their pace is heavy and slow with shame. And, in Pidge’s case, rage. Every muscle inside her tiny body seizes up, standing on edge like an electric jolt. Lance, perhaps unwisely, reaches for her elbow.

“So that was pretty wack, huh —”

She jerks away, sharply and at once. “What’s pretty _wack_ is that they actually let an idiot like _you_ sit in the pilot’s chair.”

“Hey, look, we’re supposed to be a team here,” Lance argues. “If we go down, we go down together, got it? So don’t shove _all_ the blame on me just ‘cause _you_ couldn’t handle my skills!”

“Well, those supposed _skills_ of yours are the reason why we crashed!”

“Guys, _guys_ , c’mon,” Hunk pleads, stepping between them. “Can’t we just agree it was kind of a group effort fail? I mean, this is exactly what Iverson is talking about. If we can’t learn to work together, then there’s no hope for us.”

Arms crossed, and lips pouting, Lance heaves a weighty sigh, and admits, “Hunk’s right. This calls for some emergency bonding time. I’m talkin’ drinks, ladies, a night out on the town — the _works_. How about we —”

“Whatever you’re planning, count me out.”

Pidge turns, and starts stomping toward the exit with Lance on the pursuit.

“Dude, get a grip,” he calls out to her. “After a day like today? What you need is some _fun_. A night to loosen up with your pals —”

“I’m not here to make friends!” is what she flings out, whirling around to pin him with a glare that pierces like a bullet. And Lance feels it, stopping dead in his tracks, stunned from the stinging whiplash of it all. Then, her voice lowers, slipping past her gritted teeth: “Especially not with some arrogant _prick_ like you.”

She storms off, and Lance — older, taller, newly steeled — still does not break.

But, damn, if it doesn’t _hurt_.

* * *

The stars look different out here.

But, then again, drifting out into the endless abyss of deep space is a very far cry from standing on Cuba’s silken shores, with the dark sky hanging overhead, spreading its glitter over the ocean’s rolling surface. There were some nights, Lance recalls, when the sky was so clear, he swore he could reach out and touch those shivering bits of starlight until he could feel them burning his fingertips. Every twinkling light, so close and intimate.

Now, he sits in the center of the Castle’s control room, with his legs outstretched and his neck craned back, staring at the swirling cosmos just beyond the glass barrier that surrounds him. Here, he’s never been closer to the stars. Or farther from home.

Behind him, the door whooshes open. His eyes drift lazily over his shoulder, then back again. Pidge lingers in the doorway. “Hey,” says Lance.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” she asks.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he shrugs, eyes tracing foreign patterns across the sky, “so I thought I’d do some stargazing — but none of these constellations are making _any_ sense to me. Guess we really are in the middle of nowhere.” 

“Yeah, guess so.”

A pause. Just the quiet hum of the crystal that gleams down from the ceiling, and then:

“Shouldn’t _you_ be resting, too?”

Pidge straightens, looking a bit caught. “Oh, I’m just — couldn’t sleep either. But I didn’t think I’d run into anyone else at this hour,” and there’s a smirk in her voice — just a subtle one — as she adds, “Least of all the guy who never stops complaining about needing beauty sleep. Whatever _that_ means.”

“Yeah, well, wouldn’t expect you to understand what it’s like to be as beautiful as me,” sniffs Lance, and maybe it would’ve been a more effective retort if he weren’t donning his robe and blue lion slippers at present. But still — he stands by his quip.

Chuckling, the sound of Pidge’s footsteps pad closer and closer until she’s lowering herself next to Lance, knees tucked into her chest.

“Man, it never ends, does it?” It’s just a whisper, just a breathless afterthought that he mutters into the pause of their words, as if he weren’t speaking to anyone in particular but himself. “It’s kinda freaky, right? Like, putting everything in perspective. The galaxy’s this big honkin’ thing… and _we’re_ supposed to defend it? Couple weeks ago my biggest responsibility was getting my homework done in time, and now it’s like —”

“Everything’s changed?” guesses Pidge, the corner of her mouth twitching upward, almost ruefully. “But just think about it. I mean, you’re way more help out here than you are back home doing homework and stuff.”

A haunting cavern of his mind wonders: _but am I, really?_

And, _oh_ , Lance hates how quickly these unsolicited negativities gather inside his head, smothering his thoughts like a dense fog. If he could shake himself free of them, he would, but there’s something about sitting here — beneath a vast skyscape of planets and moons and sparkling nebula — that makes him feel exponentially _smaller_ than he ever thought possible. Just a flicker of life, tragically outshined by every star in the galaxy. For the briefest of moments, he idly wonders if Pidge ever feels the same way, but — no. Of course not. Not someone with an invaluable brain like hers.

So Lance swallows it all down, through the dryness of his throat, and mumbles a faint, “Sometimes I think they picked the wrong guy, y’know?”

“They didn’t.” Her response is immediate, and takes Lance by surprise. He tears his gaze away from the sky, and stares at Pidge in the half-light, eyes blown wide. “And you proved that the other day when you helped take down Sendak, when you saved Coran —”

Her words spark flames along his skin — tiny pricks of memory that converge and bloom around his shoulder blades, where a starburst scar now mars his flesh. The brand of a newly fledged soldier. Something even hours in a healing pod couldn’t take away from him.

“You put your life on the line for us, Lance,” she tells him firmly. “You could’ve _died_. You could’ve —”

All at once, she turns away, pressing her face into her knees.

Lance blinks, speaks soft. “Pidge?”

“Just —” she grumbles, sounding muffled and choked up. And when she eventually glances up again, it’s to furrow her brow, and shove at Lance’s shoulder until he nearly topples over. “—just be more careful next time, you big dummy, okay?”

Lance takes one look at her glossy-eyed gaze, and laughs, deep from his stomach. His arm flops around her tiny frame, pulling her into his side, and she goes willingly, clinging to the soft fabric of his robe, nestling against him.

“Aw, squirt,” he coos, while the universe glows above their heads, “you _do_ care.”

* * *

Somehow, he finds himself on a beach.

Which instantly strikes him as odd because, last he remembers, they were all lifting that crazy robeast straight into the stratosphere, and then nosediving right back down to Earth, bracing for impact, but — okay. Beach. Lance can roll with that.

Below him, the sand is rich and butter-soft between his toes. Behind him, waves lick the edge of the shoreline in a gentle, rolling rhythm. And all around him, thick summer heat clings to his skin, swarming him all at once.

And there, right before him, is home.

 _His_ home.

That small, idyllic cottage by the water hasn’t aged a single day, it seems. The same wispy white curtains frame every window. His abuela’s antique rocking chair still sits out on the wooden deck. His mother’s laundry still hangs out to dry on the clothes line, fluttering in the crisp ocean breeze. He can still hear the giggles of his nieces and nephews, and see the same tree branch he fell out of and broke his wrist when he was eight. It’s like he never even left. It’s like —

Lance takes a slow stride forward, and then the entire house goes up in flames.

Burning. Raging. _Destroying_.

“No,” Lance tries to say, but no sound comes out. He watches in sheer, debilitating panic as the roof collapses, crumbles, caves in on everything he’s ever known. The smell of smog fills his lungs, chokes him until his throat is raw and there’s blood on his tongue. Another silent scream rips out of his chest as he starts to run, but the sand is suddenly sinking below him, swallowing him whole, dragging him under, under, _under_ — 

Then Lance wakes up.

He sits up with a gasp on his lips, and a shudder in his heart. The stark white bedsheets are wrinkled in his iron grasp, the thin fabric of his hospital attire sticking to his spine, slightly damp with perspiration. Eyes darting back and forth in the darkness, Lance can feel his breath returning to him at last. He’s still here. They really did it. Earth is safe. Everyone is safe. It was only a nightmare.

It takes his mind a delayed second to catch up to reality, and, in that time, the lights flicker on. Lance squints, startled, as something small, fast, and wiggly scurries onto his bed, and then starts panting in his face, licking his cheeks.

“Bae Bae!” Lance laughs, squirming and writhing happily against the bull terrier’s show of affection.

“Well, look who’s finally awake!”

That’s when something else small, fast, and wiggly leaps onto Lance’s bed, but _this_ something is decidedly Pidge-shaped. As Bae Bae scampers around by his feet, Pidge throws her arms around Lance, and he responds with a quiet ‘ _oof_ ’.

“Jeez, give a guy some warning before you koala attack him outta nowhere,” grunts Lance.

Pidge only squeezes harder. “Nope.”

“See, Pidge? Told you the smell of pizza would wake him up.”

Then, from the doorway, Hunk comes marching through with a grin on his face, and about three pizza boxes stacked in his arms. Bae Bae rushes to greet him first, jumping and yipping around his legs.

“Hunk, my _hero_ ,” cries Lance, pressing his palms together, and throwing his gaze to the ceiling. “My savior! The greatest paladin of them all!”

“The pineapple one’s all yours, buddy,” says Hunk.

“ _Gross_ ,” snorts Pidge.

It takes them no time at all to devour all three of those pizzas, even sparing a few slices of pepperoni for Bae Bae to enjoy. It’s with Hunk on the edge of his bed, and Pidge curled up to his right, and melted cheese on his fingertips that Lance finally feels at peace. It’s with a brimming heart, and a satisfying warmth in his gut, and a smile splitting his face in two that Lance thinks — _this_.

 _This_ , he thinks again with profound momentousness.

 _This fits._

**Author's Note:**

> You can check out the zine's tumblr page right [HERE](https://cosmicdustzine.tumblr.com/)! 
> 
> [MY TUMBLR](https://starlightments.tumblr.com/)  
> [MY TWITTER](https://twitter.com/starlightment)


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